Chapter 6 — Unfinished Music

Part II — Practicing Singing in the Dark

At three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the second floor hallway was deserted, except for the steady rattle of the ceiling fan overhead and the sound of Gia Bảo's own footsteps echoing strangely on the polished tile floor. He stood in front of the music room door, clutching the strap of his backpack so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his palms began to sweat even though the weather this afternoon was not hot.

The text message Tường Vy sent the night before was still on his phone screen. He read it over and over again countless times all morning: "Wednesday, after school, I borrowed the key to the music room from Ms. Hạnh. Just the two of us, no one else will know. You can come, if you don't want to, I won't force you."

That last sentence was what made him decide to come. Didn't force anything. He reread that sentence maybe twenty times, each time feeling a little more relieved, as if knowing he had the right to turn away at any time was the only thing that gave him the courage to move forward.

But standing in front of the light green painted wooden door, his hand placed on the cold doorknob, Gia Bảo suddenly stopped. His heart beat so fast that he could hear it echoing up to his eardrums, beat by beat, as heavy as a drum. Breathing becomes short and rapid, chest felt like someone was tightening it with an invisible string. He remembered this feeling — it was exactly the same feeling he had once told Quốc Huy, the familiar feeling of suffocation every time he thought about standing in front of others and opening his mouth to sing.

"Okay, another day," he muttered to himself, turning to walk away. But he only had time to lift one step before the door behind him opened.

"Gia Bảo?" Tường Vy's voice rang out, a bit surprised but not at all reproachful. "I heard someone standing outside here forever but didn't come in. I thought it was the wind blowing the door."

Gia Bảo stood frozen, his face hot with shame. Being caught trying to run away is more embarrassing than admitting you're scared. "I... I was just checking the messages," he lied clumsily, holding up his phone as weak evidence.

Tường Vy looked at him for a moment, her eyes not critical but simply gentle and observant, then she smiled, stood aside, and opened the door wider. "Come in. It's okay; if you want to leave I won't hold you back, but if you've come this far, come in and sit for a while to avoid wasting time walking all the way to the second floor."

That gentle, somewhat humorous statement made Gia Bảo's shoulders gradually relax. He nodded and walked through the threshold.

The inside of the music room was completely different from the image he was familiar with every afternoon when the club practiced crowdedly. The window curtains were almost completely closed, leaving only a small gap to let the late afternoon sunlight in, forming a thin streak of light on the wooden floor. The ceiling lights were off, only a small table lamp placed on the piano lid emitted a warm yellow halo, enough to see everything clearly but not too bright. The atmosphere in the room was so quiet that Gia Bảo could hear the soft sound of chalk dust falling in the light.

"I like to keep the room like this when practicing alone," Tường Vy explained, as if reading the question in his eyes. "If the light is too soft, you'll feel sleepy, but if it's too bright, you'll feel... exposed. This half-dark, half-bright light is just enough so that no one feels like they're being stared at."

Gia Bảo nodded slowly, secretly appreciating that delicacy. He put his backpack down on a chair near the door, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, not knowing where to sit.

"Sit here," Tường Vy patted the surface of the piano chair, the empty seat next to her. "Don't worry, I won't force you to sing today."

"Really?" Gia Bảo asked again, his voice unable to hide his relief.

"Really," Tường Vy replied, laughing at his obvious reaction. "What do you think I'm going to do, shove the microphone in your face as soon as you walk in the door? For the first session, I just want the two of us to talk for a bit, to get you used to being in this room without twenty other people around."

Gia Bảo sat down, keeping a moderate distance, placing his hands on his knees. He glanced at the old piano in front of him. The ivory keys had turned yellow over time, and a few keys had a small corner chipped. "When did this guitar come from?"

"Miss Hanh said it was there when the school was first built, probably twenty or so years ago," Tường Vy said, her hand lightly gliding over the closed lid of the piano, not opening it. "I heard that in the past there was another newer guitar, but it was broken in a storm, now only this one remains. Sometimes I think it's just like us, old, with a few chips, but still trying to make sounds every day."

Gia Bảo remained silent, feeling that those words touched his heart in a very gentle way that he had not yet named. He looked around the room, his eyes stopped at the corner of the wall where a few old certificates of merit hung, the paper was discolored, the photo frame covered with a thin layer of dust.

"Don't you ask me why I'm like this?" he suddenly asked, his voice small. "Why am I... so afraid of singing?"

Tường Vy turned to look at him, her eyes calm, not at all curious and prying like he had feared. "I've heard Quốc Huy briefly tell you a few times, but I think if you want to tell, you'll tell it yourself when you feel ready. I don't need to know everything to help you. I just need to know that you're scared, and that it's true, that's enough for me to know how to start slowly."

That answer surprised Gia Bảo. He always thought that if he wanted someone to help him overcome his fear, he would have to tell the entire heartbreaking story of his ninth grade year, exposing old scars to light so people could understand. But Tường Vy didn't seem to need that. She just needed to know he was scared, and for her, that was enough.

"Now let's do this," Tường Vy said, turning around in the chair to completely face him, placing her hands on her knees, in a comfortable position. "Before talking about singing or anything, I want to teach you a breathing exercise. You don't need to make any sounds. You just need to breathe in deeply with your belly, hold for a few seconds, then exhale slowly. Can you do that?"

"It sounds... simple," Gia Bảo said, although there was still some doubt in his heart.

"Simple but not easy," Tường Vy smiled, placing a hand on her belly to model. "Try it. Breathe in."

Gia Bảo followed suit, taking a deep breath, but only halfway through, he felt his shoulders rise, his breathing shallow and rapid according to old habits. Tường Vy gently shook her head, not to criticize but as a gentle correction.

"Don't let your shoulders rise like that," she said, reaching out her hand, then stopping mid-step as if suddenly remembering something, she pulled her hand back. "Sorry, I was going to put my hand on your stomach so you can feel it, but that's probably a bit weird. Put your hand on it yourself, feel if your stomach swells when you inhale."

Gia Bảo put his hand on his stomach and tried again. This time he intentionally held his shoulders down, letting his breathing go deeper and slower. He felt his stomach bulge gently under his palm, a strange feeling that he had never noticed in his eighteen years of life, even though he still breathed in and out every second of every minute.

"That's right," Tường Vy encouraged, her eyes shining. "Hold it for a few seconds... then exhale slowly, like blowing out a candle far away. Don't blow it out right away, let it sway slowly."

They repeated that exercise about ten times, the atmosphere in the room gradually became quiet and steady according to the rhythm of both of their breathing. Gia Bảo strangely realized that the familiar feeling of suffocation in his chest was gradually dissipating, replaced by a gentle relaxation that he had not felt in a long time.

"Now then," Tường Vy said, her voice still gentle as if she were comforting a child, "I won't force you to sing. I just want to try a little, okay? Just a very soft 'a' sound, very soft, so soft that I can just hear it, no need to be loud."

Gia Bảo felt his heart begin to beat faster again, but this time the rhythm was not quite the same as the familiar panic. There was something else, a thrill mixed with curiosity that he couldn't name.

"I... I'm not sure," he said, his voice mumbling.

"It's okay, just try it," Tường Vy said, then she made a very soft "ah" sound herself, almost just a tonal breath, soft and short, like a leaf falling onto the surface of water without ripples. "See, it's just that light."

Gia Bảo looked at her, then looked down at his hands clasped on his knees. He took a deep breath according to what he had just practiced, held it for a few seconds, then let that breath carry an extremely small, almost inaudible sound, out of his throat.

It was just a tiny sound, so faint that perhaps if the room wasn't so absolutely quiet, no one would have heard it. But for Gia Bảo, it was the loudest, scariest, and bravest sound he had ever made in the past three years.

His hands trembled, not from the cold, but from a sudden surge of intense emotion in his chest—a mixture of fear, shame, and something vaguely like relief. He quickly lowered his head, not daring to look at Tường Vy, afraid he would see an expression in her eyes that reminded him of her giggles from years ago.

But when he looked up, what he saw was just a very light, very calm smile on Tường Vy's face, without any excessive surprise or ridiculous praise that could make him more embarrassed.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low and sincere. "I know it's not easy."

That's all. There was no applause, no cheers, no one ran to hug him to congratulate him. There was just a simple thank you, and that, strangely enough, made Gia Bảo feel safer than any compliment he had ever received in his life.

They sat in silence for a while, Gia Bảo gradually regained his normal breathing, and the trembling feeling in his hand gradually subsided. The sunlight outside the curtain had turned darker orange, signaling that the afternoon was gradually drifting toward sunset.

"What do you think?" Tường Vy asked softly, after a comfortable silence.

Gia Bảo thought for a moment before answering, trying to find the right words to describe the strange feeling coiling in his heart. "I think... I expected to feel much worse than this. I kept preparing myself for the suffocating, heart-pounding feeling, like every time I think about singing in front of someone. But this time... it's not like that at all."

"Because today it's just you and me," Tường Vy said, "there are no twenty pairs of eyes, no stage, no one waiting for you to be perfect. There is only a small sound, in a dimly lit room, no one to judge."

Gia Bảo nodded, his heart filled with a feeling of gratitude that was hard to describe in words. He looked out the window through the narrow gap in the curtain and saw the afternoon shadows falling across the empty schoolyard.

"Thank you," he said, this time taking the initiative to speak first. "For not forcing yourself."

"Don't thank me yet," Tường Vy smiled, stood up and stretched, the table lamp casting her long shadow on the wall. "I still have a plan for you, just going slowly. Can we continue practicing next week, same time, same place?"

Gia Bảo stood up as well, feeling a sense of relief spread throughout his body, a feeling he never thought he could have after stepping out of the room associated with music. Not the relief of escaping something scary, but the relief of just passing a small step, however small, on a path he thought he would never dare to take again.

"Okay," he replied, his voice more certain than he expected. "Next week."

When Gia Bảo walked out of the music room, the sunset dyed the empty hallway orange. He looked back once and saw Tường Vy turning off the table lamp and pulling back the curtain neatly before locking the door. There was something about that simple image that made his heart feel strangely warm, as if that dimly lit room was no longer a place that scared him, but had begun to become a safe place, a place where he could return, little by little, to find the music he had buried in his heart for so long.